Four Escapes
by hiddenmoments
Summary: Four times they make a a break for it and four times they fail. Don, Ian and the loss of hope, sanity and everything but each other. Four parts between Times Two and upcoming Sixteen Hours.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hooray for the next part! Still not mine but are you really surprised?_**

**Part I**

_i._

His entire body is coiled, thrumming with adrenaline as he waits. (_FBI work is an hour of waiting watching paperwork for every minute of action_) Gravel has made the mistake of waiting too long between beatings and he is one big bruise but a bruise that can move. (_alive is pain better than the alternative_)

They've managed to fray binding ropes to the point where (_we hope we hope we hope we hope_) a burst of action should break them.

The voice keeps talking, low and soothing as his body struggles to contain the explosive rush. (_always the hunter Ian slow and steady taking them down from a distance_) A dark chuckle is bubbling in his throat because time has no meaning anymore and the fact that their chance is coming strikes him as unbearably amusing. (_cracking breaking splitting flying apart under pressure like skin under their hands gaping chasm we all fall down_)

Ian, still sprawled languidly against the wall, is peppered with bruises in various states of fading. Their vision is adapting to the perpetual dark (_you look like an oversized pasty fly in night vision_ _goggles Coop_) and they can both recognise when food and water appear in a blinding flash of light that just as quickly fades into the interminable gloom.

He knows that he looks even worse than Ian, that his entire body is bruise and blood and slowly melting sanity. The voice tells him that untreated concussion, repeated sedation and malnutrition are what makes it hard for him to concentrate (_Coop says it's ADHD just like him and that's why we work so well_) but he knows that the dark stretching for ever on and on is to blame for that.

(_monsters in the closet under the bed I need my baseball bat Dad so I can protect Charlie if they try and get us_)

The voice is starting to sound tired and scared but still so calm compared to the rasp that leaves his throat when he tries to take his turn at reassuring, (_it'll be okay Ian I can do this I can try and end this so we can go home_) at leading, at doing it right.

He was good at that, he remembers dimly. Being in charge. He led people, he was a good leader. (_Colby Liz Nikki David please don't think this was your fault_) The memory, the purpose, is enough to still his trembling hands and ground him tentatively in reality.

_ii._

He doesn't know how long it takes for their chance to come, but the whole world narrows to the single rectangle of light as the door opens and every cell in his body erupts.

The rope splits as he lunges for the door and Ian is right there with him. The tray clatters to the floor and his hands close around a wrist (_if I hold just right and just tight enough I can break your bones just give me a reason_) as the figure at the door reels backwards.

Their momentum pushes the startled man straight into the wall where he hits, groans, slumps. (_go go go go_) A gleaming pistol feels like a limb he forgot he once had and they make for the corridor.

(_dead men running dead men armed dead men everywhere_)

His arms quiver under the strain of holding the gun ready as the voice says his name, as long fingers wrap around his arm and pull him towards a door, as his brain seems to rattle around in his skull. A man ahead, barrel like a gaping maw of darkness pointed at Ian, falls as his throat collapses into undulating waves of red.

(_get out get out get out must get out_) Sanity comes crashing back with the sharp crack of the firing pin, the scent of gunpowder, the recoil. His legs firm beneath him, muscles screaming with the protest as feet pound a desperate staccato against the unforgiving floor.

The staccato is broken, interrupted, by a cry of pain that isn't part of anything they'd planned. A growl rumbles low in his throat as he skids to a halt and pivots. A feral smile has hands wrapped around Ian's forearm and jerks sharply in opposing directions.

Even over their panting, the crack of bone is audible and the strangled gasp of pain levels the pistol held in quivering fingers and a hoarse snarl demands that the smile stand down. (_can't afford delay must hurry Ian_) Disbelieving laughter is the only response and with an oddly quiet cracking sound, a neat hole decorates the smile's forehead as Ian wrenches free.

They bolt.

(_run run run run_)

_iii._

A last desperate burst of speed (_smell the air I think that might be the sun_) isn't enough as an arm closes around his throat and his fingers contract around the trigger. The bullet skitters harmlessly around the corner, ricocheting out of sight like a shooting star as supernovas explode behind his eyes.

The voice is raised in fury, _ (if this is what space is like why didn't you tell me it hurt so bad Fleinhardt_) desperate and relentless, railing against their failure as his legs buckle, tailbone impacting with the concrete floor and another supernova blossoming, breaking, burning along his ribs.

Everything blurs and is taken over by darkness as the crack of something striking flesh that might or might not be his morphs, the world nothing but silent tendrils of air against feverish skin.

Vertigo swallows him whole, sucking him into the maw of a ravenous black hole.

(_sorry so sorry I'll do better next time I swear_)

* * *

_**Our poor boys. I want to say that I'll make it better but I do try not to lie and I've proven to myself that I suck at happy endings. They tried though, and it won't be the last time they try either. Don and Ian aren't going to lay down and break or take this torture like lapdogs, which is something I think the people behind this didn't quite take as seriously as they should have.**_

_**Motivation and methods aside, I don't think they really considered just how determined the team and co would be to get them back and just how far Don and Ian are willing to go to prove them wrong. They'd rather die than give them that satisfaction.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

_i._

By the time they've familiarised themselves with the new room, their second plan has fallen together. Ian's arm is immobilised against his chest by sheer willpower and a scrap of fabric alone (_bone knitting wrong but can't be fussy now no can't be fussy_) and the thick line of bruising across Don's throat stands in stark contrast to the pale skin.

They sit together against the wall, legs pressed against one another as the chill settles into their bones and Ian quietly whispers to the other man about nothing in particular. (_long hunts solitude the warmth of sun and laughter in dark places_) Abused throat muscles can do little more than croak so Ian compensates as best he can.

A loose chip of concrete, sharpened against the ground into the best approximation of a weapon they have, rests loosely between lightly trembling fingers. Sometimes Ian wraps his good hand around them because he can't stand it. (_your eyes wouldn't leave your watch if you still had it_)

All they can do is wait, this time. No one enters the room in less than a pair and the violence is sparser even if their fists are harder and more relentless when they come. A wicked pride burns somewhere in Ian when he realises that their actions cost their captors at least two men (_hopefully three_) and the hunter in him knows that they aren't going to fail harmlessly this time either.

Food is scarcer and the buckets of water are staler but Ian knows his appetite is barely existent any more. He doesn't think Don will be able to eat much of anything until his throat heals somewhat. (_if we even make it that far_)

Their opportunity comes quicker this time, what must be only a few hours after the concrete sliver makes short work of the cloth bindings around their ankles.

_ii._

The cuffs around Don's wrists hinder him, but the smaller man launches himself at the door even as it begins to close at the motion. Ian lunges, his good hand latching onto the wood and yanking back. (_inevitable there is going to be a hospital stay but I don't think I will ever complain again_) Evidently not expecting him to be able to even do that much, the door falters and surprise and sheer desperation works to their favour as it swings open wide enough for Don to slip through. (_go go go go_ _Eppes we need to hurry_)

The unsurprising sound of gunfire blasts through the air and Ian barely misses the edge of the door as he follows, panic settling in his gut. (_don't leave me here please_)

Slumped against the wall, the sliver of concrete is buried in the side of the first man's neck and the chain of Don's cuffs is around the other man's throat (_the finest poetic justice_) as the gun flails in the air. A bullet slams into the wall beside Ian and a few seconds later, he catches the man's wrist with his good hand as agony burns through the broken one. Deftly, the gun changes hands and Don twists the man towards the wall.

The sickening crunch is satisfaction enough as the limp figure falls. (_this time we'll make it this time we can this time it has to be over please please please please_) Crouching to retrieve the sliver of concrete, a crack of unexpected gunfire sounds and a strangled gasp escapes Don. Ian swings around, the gun coming up as the other man struggles to regain his balance.

Three more men are standing at the end of the hall, fury written in their faces and the barrels of their guns.

(_it ends now or we die trying_)

_iii._

Staggering to the side, Don manages to cover most of his crouch. Mouthing a silent _run _as he presses his own hands against the bleeding gash across his ribs, the man turns towards the barrels of the gun with surrender plain in his body language.

(_like hell I'm leaving you fool_)

The men begin to approach, cruel laughter replacing the gunshots and pounding blood in Ian's ears as he steadies his fingers around the gun in his hand. (_I can get one maybe two before the last puts one through one of our heads_)

He's momentarily distracted by the blood dripping from between Don's fingers, staining the ground already. The gun in his hand wavers just a little and a warning shot passes close enough for the familiar scent of gunpowder to sting his nose.

Don moves, lightening fast (_one last hurrah okay we'll make it good_) and he fires.

One of the men dodges the first shot but falls to the second as it passes clean through a shoulder. Another fires and he throws himself to the side as he lets off the second to last round in the gun but the movement affects the shot and it grazes another's leg.

(_this arm is never healing_)

The concrete sliver, still in a blood-covered hand, comes down on the third's gun arm. The resulting bullet skims under the descending arm and in the next millisecond across Ian's bicep, leaving a trail of fire.

When two more guns appear and a chilling voice shouts for them to stop this foolishness, he slumps, eyes closing. The owner of the voice moves closer, boots tapping against the ground and long, thin fingers close around his damaged forearm. (_this is interrogation pain where are the electrodes what do they want to know I'll talk I'll talk I'll talk I'll talk_)

The resulting hiss of pain prompts a satisfied chuckle as the voice lowers, becomes smooth and distinctly accented. (_feed this voicebox to the alligators in that swamp where we found Johnson right Eppes_) It tells Ian that he's very lucky that it wants Don to suffer, that it wants him to suffer, (_betting you never played well with others prick_) because if it didn't, they would be dead already for killing and maiming so many of it's men.

When the hand releases his arm his hearing returns and he can hear laboured gasps. The hand leaves and he hears tearing fabric as his eyes open halfway. Ghosting across a bruised, struggling throat, the hand looks like a spider and Ian knows. (_we can't even fail they keep changing the rules_)

He knows that it really isn't over.

* * *

_**I'd try the evil laughter, I really would, but I'm tearing up a bit because I feel so bad for all this torture. I figured there had to be a reason they weren't just shot immediately every time they tried to escape and that struck me as pretty reasonable. Eventually dying quickly starts to seem like a better idea and well, they aren't exactly being very liberal with options for the boys. I think they're holding up remarkably well considering, and their tally of henchmen taken down during escape attempts is growing. Two more attempts to go, if all stays according to plan.**_

_**Also, because you're all so amazing, I'd like to invite anyone who has reviewed so far to make a request of their choosing as thanks for all of your support. A viewpoint of a particular event, an event going a different way, a different character being involved in a particular section of this. If you don't want any of that, a request for a oneshot of your own choosing (just give me some criteria: character/s, events, genre, etc) is okay too. I make no promises about when they'll be done, but if the idea is something I can write, I will definitely try to get it done in some kind of reasonable timeframe.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

_i._

The third time, it doesn't even matter anymore. It wouldn't have happened if all the stars hadn't aligned perfectly (_gift from someone somewhere maybe we aren't doomed_) because their spirits were as close to crushed as they were going to come.

(_he won't even let us die_)

Spiders dance across the skin of his face and hands but nails pinch and pierce the weaknesses around his ears and eyes. (_spider pincers marching ants_)A blow lands across his face and when his eyes spring open at the sound of Ian's voice, he sees steel tainted by desperation.

He spits the blood pooling in his mouth at the aristocratic features looming in front of him (_hope it becomes acid and you melt like a witch_) before consciousness flees again and leaves a coppery tang on his lips.

_ii._

Ian's voice is low and soothing in his ear when the world begins to slowly come back into focus. The warm breath ghosting over his ear makes him jolt weakly and fire explodes along his ribs at the motion. (_can't touch the floor rivers of lava Chuck_)

Gradually, the voice becomes words and his eyes focus on the bruise that moves every time another word reaches his ears. (_if you really were their bastard son maybe Eastwood and Yoda could help us_) A bitter laugh tears itself from his throat and the skin sears with agony.

The words mean something that might be to hush, that might be telling him that everything will be okay and it breaks his heart a little that Ian still thinks so but he won't ruin it. (_if you think it will be okay then we'll make it okay somehow god I wish you ran but glad you didn't_)

A tapping sound is all that his body needs to start flooding with adrenaline but Ian is close enough that he can feel the lack of response in the other man. A thin line of light falls across the ground, across his legs (_spiders have eight legs and we only have two how is that at all fair_) and he pushes back against Ian in preparation to gain his feet.

Hands hold his shoulders down and the words tell him that it's okay, that they're going to get some food and water and medicine and then they're going to go.

(_go where are we going to go we already tried this_)

Distinctly smaller than usual, a figure slips into the room. The footsteps are light and careful but the hand that rests on his forehead a moment later is callused and strong. (_Dad what are you even doing here_) Ian's hands are steady upon his shoulders and a voice he doesn't know begins to talk quietly.

Ears straining, he picks out a few words and realises that the voice is talking about injuries and what can be done for them. Laughter bubbles from his abused throat and it sounds like the rasp of a dying man but there's little else to do when the world breaks around you. (_round the twist properly now reality is gone_)

Water is poured into his mouth, something injected into his arm and several small pills placed under his tongue. By the time the fabric stuck to the gash across his ribs has been moistened and carefully pulled away, he can hardly feel the aches and pains that have been his world for he doesn't even know how long.

(_how far gone do you have to be before it stops hurting_)

The hands he doesn't know take over for Ian's and helps him to his feet. Stability is a thing of the past but he's long past looking a gift horse in the mouth. (_if I concentrate too hard might remember how much it hurts_)

Ian and the hands and voice talk quietly for a little while and he tests his legs, pleased when they don't give out on him. The hands touch his forehead again and he reaches out, finds a shoulder and pats it lightly. (_you've been a good delusion so thank you for that_) A breathless but relatively clear expression of gratitude works its' way free of his mouth and then the hands, shoulder and voice are all gone.

The thin sliver of light is still there.

_iii_.

They eat the crackers and bread in the corner, softened in what was left of the water. Steely eyes are the most alert he's seen them since their first failure (_this is the hunter and the hound that will end you_) and even he feels like the world is sharpening underneath the gradually lessening haze.

Words aren't necessary by then, a gentle pressure on his back enough incentive to move, to tread softly and limit himself to shallow, quiet breathing. (_make yourself small Eppes unsubstantial like a ghost you want to become part of the scenery instead of the focus of it_)

Encountering no resistance as the door opens freely beneath Ian's good hand, the blood pounding in his ears softens just enough for his hearing to throw the surroundings into sharper relief. Silence has never felt so freeing before and their pace quickens, tread light and breathing smoother, easier, softer. (_this is real_) The long, lean hunter steps ahead to lead and there is no urge to fight it.

A glowing exit sign is the first proof that they're close. There is no stopping to savour the air, the sunlight, they break into a run as their feet hit asphalt. (_made it we made it guys we're coming_)

_iv._

The crack of gunfire is not unexpected (_it was too easy_)and they surge ahead despite the fact that there is a car engine revving and the screech of tyres. Underneath the gentle haze, legs begin to burn and lungs seize with the strain of breathing.

They don't even make the edge of the service road before the car overtakes and doubles back upon them. Changing direction doesn't achieve much as the end of a rope strikes across their shins hard enough to take them out, sending both crashing to the ground.

Long, pale fingers close around an already struggling throat and he twists, knee coming into contact with a hip. The fingers apply pressure and not even Ian's cry of pain is enough to stir him to fight. (_the spider and his web so sorry_)

Smooth and unhurried, the voice surrounds him and says that while the fact they are so resistant is pleasing, this foolishness really does need to stop because breaking is not easy when they keep getting away.

* * *

_**I'm sorry this is late! My grandparents are down from up north and I had them over for dinner tonight and I might have gone a bit overboard and spent most of the day cooking. Hopefully I can catch up to where I should be again before life gets out of control. I hope this doesn't disappoint!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV  
**  
_i._

Ian doesn't even know how long Don's been unconscious for. They were moved, he knows that much, and there are tight loops of solid rope around their ankles that are tied together. Blindfolds too. (_the last time was too much they aren't going to give us the chance again_)

He wishes that he knew how to act broken enough for the guard to come down once more but he feels the burning stares even when he dares to sleep. They never cease and he knows that they are on Don too, unconscious or not.

(_I can feel your breath sometimes when I lean close enough it's the only way I know you're still here_)

_ii._

The blindfold is gone and he doesn't remember how or when. Propped up against the wall in an out of the way corner, he can see people, playing cards at a table, drinking coffee, glancing towards him with ill-disguised interest. Anger swells in his chest (_circus show_) and he has to close his eyes even as the man, ostensibly a guard, guffaws at something on a small television.

Eventually, the noise becomes too much to take alone and reaching to the side, his fingers brush over worn fabric, stiff with dried blood. A moment later, tilting his head in that direction and blinking, he sees the slightest flicker of dark lashes in response. (_still here still here_)

The bruising is a sickly green and purple pattern, disappearing into shadows and the edges of thick curls. Bile rises in his own throat and he swallows it with difficulty. (_this is too much too long too far gone_) Don's eyes are open when he looks again and the dark brown seems almost liquid underneath the dim lighting.

His voice cracks a little as he asks a meaningless question to fill the void (_lie to me if you have to Don please just don't not be here_)but the voice that responds with a soft reassurance is warmer and smoother than it has been in a long time.

Ease settles over him and his fingers curve around the thigh beneath them. It could have been a minute, an hour, a day later, when answering fingers rest lightly atop his. (_thank you thank you thank you thank you_)

Really, it doesn't matter how long it was because when the fingers curl around his own and squeeze just a little, the fact that their situation is hopeless seems that much less overwhelming.

(_it has to end eventually somehow whatever way it happens we can be patient_)

_iii._

There isn't any warning when the panels of the ramshackle roof come crashing down. The rapid fire impacts of steel and glass are quickly followed by the banging of doors hitting walls and the unrelenting pounding of feet against hard floors. (_have they found us for real this time_)

Two sets of arms instantly seize him as voices bounce from wall to wall and gas begins to overtake the air. (_standard operating procedure make entry tear gas identification and engage the hostiles_) He barely sees a monster of a man lift Don like a limpet through the gas but then they begin to move.

Vague faces swim across his vision as hacking coughs wrack his lungs and he uses the momentum to writhe against the restraining arms. (_don't go too far they have to find us together_) The struggles are in vain as arms tighten around his shoulders and speed picks up as the gas thins just a little.

A scream that sounds heartbreakingly familiar (_that's Liz screaming for Don it really is them_) makes him struggle harder as a guttural cry escapes from nearby. He hears gunfire but it is more of a background noise than anything as his blood pounds painfully loud in his ears.

Faces appear barely a yard away, desperation written in every crease, every line, every particle as the distance closes millimetre by millimetre. Green eyes fierce with determination flash (_Granger you're really here_) as hands scrabble for grip on his arm and a second pair, splayed and searching, (_Cooper please help Don_) reach into the gas.

The grip on his wrist slackens. (_no no no no_)

His vision falters under the relentless sting as tears of sorrow tip the balance. A thud sounds and the monster with Don is gone and fresh air hits his lungs so hard it is painful.

(_please don't let them be dead because we failed_)

* * *

_**DON IS STILL ALIVE.**_

_**I'm sorry if I gave the impression that this was going to be the beginning of the REAL angstfest but this certainly isn't where we dovetail with **__Eighty Days__**, there's still plenty left to go! This story was just the four times they tried to escape and failed. They don't make it out yet, the next story is a team-centric one called **__Five Bloodhounds__** and THEN in **__Sixteen Hours __**Don and Ian kick some ass and take a few names up to where **__Eighty Days__** picks up**_**.** _Seventy Seven Seconds__** will be the last piece with a section each from the usual suspects before **__Eighty__Days__** and then I think there are probably a couple more to tie up some loose ends.**_


End file.
